


Compliant

by Opheliac



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst/Dark themes, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Hydra as an actual multi headed monster, M/M, Other, Steve/Bucky is only implied, Tentacle Porn, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opheliac/pseuds/Opheliac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1991. One night off cryo, after succeeding in an important mission. Compliance will always be rewarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compliant

**Author's Note:**

> warning again for dubious consent (extremely dubious consent) and explicit sex with tentacles.

It starts when he is allowed to rest in for the day. His head hurts, especially around his eyes, and his jaw feels as if it is permanently clenched after the past hour or so in the chair. He doesn't remember, only rubs his right wrist absently, where a faint rope burn marks his otherwise flawless skin. The moment they take him out of the Room, when he is left alone in this wide and quiet hall, he is once again empty of thoughts, of resistance. Almost a tabula rasa, except he knows enough to be efficient, practical. It is the way they prefer him to be, almost completely oblivious but still responding positively to the tests, obeying promptly, never bothering the doctors with questions. He knows better, by now, and the voice of a small doctor with round glasses and a shallow face echoes in his empty mind. Compliance is always rewarded.

They give him a full night out of the room 33, where his cryogenic chamber is. This room is wide, dark and quiet, his firm and slow steps echo through it as he enters. They lock the door soundly behind him. He prefers it this way, quiet and dark rooms, with a door safely locked in its end. The silence is ready to announce to his ever alert ears in case something is off, and he doesn't feel exposed in the dark. He feels embraced. Cleansed he might be, but he still has all of his senses of preservation intact. There is no noise but his own steps as he walks in, struts with a dangerous grace through the dark room and stumbles against a large bed. He palms over the soft duvets, part of him aches to feel it better, and he indulges to it, lets his weight rest over the bed, and feels as if he's sinking into the ground. The ceiling is high above his head, there are no windows. His arm whirrs softly as he raises one hand above his head just in attempt to see how blind the darkness of the room made him.

One slick, firm limb grips at his wrist, just a moment before his mind drifts off into a deeper darkness than he's already in. He blinks, feels his ankles being held too, and another pair of limbs lifts him from the bed. It's cold, but gentle. One of them circles his sore right wrist and he feels as if it's healing, from outside in. The side of him that wants the soft bedding is still numb, from the shocks, the treatment to his brain's bad habit of gathering more than the necessary. Greedy. He is learning. Instead of forcing that side of him awake, protesting, insisting he was allowed to be left tonight, he lets himself be lifted. It can't be punishment, he behaved so well.

Soon enough, he finds that he cannot count the limbs touching. There is one, thinner than those holding him up and still, sliding under the fabrics covering his body, tearing them with sure, precise movements, and the sound of the fabric being ripped apart thrills him in a way he cannot describe. It doesn't feel cold anymore when they are done ripping the clothes away, the opposite. He feels hot, especially where the limbs touch, their wet trail is lukewarm and they don't wait until it gets cold. They keep touching, and he closes his eyes while waits for more of it. This is reward, he behaved well enough.

They touch everywhere at once, sometimes putting pressure and other times simply caressing. They slide across the small nubs of flesh in his chest, teasing wetly, making his jaw drop open and what little tension is gripping at his muscles fade. He goes lax, they won't drop him on the cold, hard floor. They wrap around his thighs, forcing them apart just enough, it doesn't hurt. He blinks, arches when he feels overly wet between his cheeks. One of them caress his cheek, while another pushes inside. It's wet, so wet he hears the squelch sounds, and warm, it doesn't hurt and he lets out a sound, unsure if he's allowed to. He is. They do not silence him, only press further and he moans for more. Greedy.

Once they filled him entirely, another grasps at his cock, red and hard and with a wet fluid trickling down the small slit at the slightly flared crown. When they touch the fluid, they become hungry. Slide in and out of him faster, grip harder at his limbs. The one caressing his cheek is now around his throat, dipping past his lips, and he doesn't dare closing his mouth. He has to behave well. The one around his erection strokes, the thinnest one he felt dips into the small slit slowly, and he would scream if the hour or so in the chair hadn't worn out his ability to do so. It doesn't take long until he feels it, a hot bursting where they touch so insistently, he feels something hot and wet spurting out. It might be blood, he doesn't know. They become hungrier.

They do not silence him. Even when he regains his ability to scream, when they keep touching and pressing and squeezing until he's over sensitive. His body keeps giving. It is the serum, what makes him the perfect soldier, that keeps him giving and he opens his eyes to attempt to glimpse at the limbs. They are pale crimson, slightly larger at the tip and he sees the slit of a toothless mouth right around his left arm. The limbs are heads. The sound of wet sliding and his sobbed out, wordless moans reverberate through the room. The lights are still out, he cannot distinguish what is him and what is one of the head anymore. They mix pleasure and pain through his frail brain, so harmonically he cannot distinguish those too. He wants more, wants it to stop. At some point, they let him taste what his body gives and he whines. It's bitter, gnaws at his throat and he knows what it is. His seed. He understands why they don't stop, each one wants it. They take their time. He lets them.

Eventually, he's simply tossing his head from side to side. His body is wet all over, dripping, his own sweat, their fluid, his seed, his tears. All at once, and he feels dirty but they don't seem to mind. They slip out of him and he hisses softly at his muscles clenching around nothing, at the pull of the sore muscles of his legs for being spread for so long. They lower him down to the bed, lull him to sleep when his gray-blue eyes become unfocused and he finally allows himself to feel the strain of it all. His body hurts, his mind is desperately blank and he needs it to be filled. He doesn't know what to do without his orders, without command.

He's barely awake when they start again, and is beyond tired to protest, to make any sound. This time, they let him stay in the bed, simply lifting his hips and touching again. He closes his eyes, and a dust of golden hair brushes past his mind, a pair of kind blue eyes look at him. It makes something massive and hot twist inside him and he chokes down a sob. It feels too sensitive. He thinks he's heard a voice somewhere too, saying something to him, some word he doesn't quite know but causes him to relax further. _Bucky_. He has no idea of time in this room, windowless and dark. Eventually, they seem to be satisfied, and he cannot move, not even one muscle.

They cradle him, lull him into a well deserved sleep. One caresses his hair, the other soothes the dull ache in his thighs, another wraps him around the soft duvet over the bed. For one moment, he is allowed to be flawed, weak and small. The heads are many, they press him against a warm body and he drifts off, asleep. This time, it's not his brain shutting down because of the pain. It's not the chair, or the cryogenic chamber, or the soldiers like him. This time is warm, and thorough, and safe. He feels safe.

That shard of feeling is his reward. Since he behaved so well.

**Author's Note:**

> well, this is my first published work ever in life so I am sorry in advance for any mistakes this might have.
> 
> I tried to find some hydra/Bucky fics around but there were none, so I thought: eh, why not?
> 
> feedback would be very very much appreciated, about any mistakes, good or bad things. thank you!


End file.
